foolish
by frizzoli
Summary: Effie tries to cook. Haymitch thinks she's stupid. And then...things get weird. Eventual M. Intended multichap. Haymitch/Effie.


loosen your corset

Haymitch would tell you that there is absolutely no reason on this good Earth why Effie Trinket should think she'd be good in the kitchen. Effie would tell you that Haymitch is a pessimist.

Both of these things are true.

Haymitch rolls over and reaches for her but she's not there. This isn't anything new to him, exactly. It's just that she usually stays a little longer in the mornings before she disappears. His apartment in the Capitol is…cluttered, at best. And Effie does not do well when she's not surrounded by order and cleanliness. Besides, it's not like he _likes_ her, so he refuses to be disappointed when he comes to terms with the fact she's not there. It's a damn shame, though. There's really nothing better than the smooth, warm skin of her back to wake him- not even whiskey. He decides he'll sleep in for a while.

Until he smells burning.

He still has nightmares, sometimes, but usually the nights he sleeps with Effie they're gone for a few days. The smell of burning vividly brings back the smell of burning _flesh_ and then he can only remember the axe and the forcefield and he panics, struggling out of bed with the covers still wound around his legs, stumbling into the wall when he realizes he's not actually in the arena- he's in a room. In his apartment. And very much still alive.

But something is still burning. And there is only one god damned person he knows that would attempt to use the frankly _dilapidated _stove in his apartment, although he doesn't know why she would bother.

"_Effie!_"

He rounds the corner into the kitchen just in time to see her jump. He likes to see her like this, though, caught off guard and all his. She hasn't put any makeup on yet and her wig is still somewhere in his bedroom, so her skin is smooth and tanned and he can see the mark he left on her neck where her blonde curls are pulled up into some kind of a bun. She looks…normal. Maybe he does like her a little bit. But she doesn't need to know that.

"Haymitch, my God. You scared the…"  
"The shit out of you? Gee, I'm sorry, I guess I should have kept my _nightmares of burning flesh and dead people_ to myself, huh?" He doesn't particularly mean that, and Effie knows him well enough to ignore it. "I'm making breakfast," she says self-importantly. "No," he replies, leaning against the counter, "you are _burning_ breakfast, sweetheart."

She's gotten bolder with him, lately. Like Peeta and Katniss' success have empowered her to sass him. He likes her better that way because it's easier to tease her when he knows she's going to try to tease him back- even if she's no good at it. It's a good way for both of them to distract themselves from the fact that what Peeta and Katniss did in the Arena may have doomed them all. "I figured it might improve the smell," Effie says, with that familiar little self-important twist to her mouth.

Haymitch wants to push her up against the wall and kiss the smirk off her face.

They have always been this way. There are no emotions involved in their relationship. It began and developed as a purely physical manifestation of frustration with each other. He's smart enough to realize that he's become attached to her, but not as a person- more as a body. Sure, it sounds shallow, but it isn't as if Effie feels any differently, so he doesn't waste time feeling like shit about it. There's enough for him to blame himself for, already.

So it's more than a little strange that she has stuck around long enough to try to cook, in _his_ kitchen. They're not friends. He goes out of his way to remind her of that: "Why do you care what my apartment smells like?" he asks. But even he has to admit that burning breakfast is a better smell than unwashed clothes, alcohol, and…well, _him_. Effie takes the pan (which he had not known existed) off the stove and plunks the half-charred bacon onto a plate. "I was trying to do something nice."

"For me?"  
"Don't be sarcastic. It's not becoming."  
"I'm not being sarcastic. It's just that the last time I checked, you don't particularly like me."

It's a fact, but Effie looks down and away from him with a look on her face like she's been caught lying. "I," she reaches up unconsciously and her fingers brush over his mark on her neck and he shifts closer in an absurd rush of possessiveness, "think you're rude, untidy, and excessively bitter. But I never said I didn't like you."

"Ah." So he's underestimated the situation. She likes him. And he's already established that, at least without the wig and ridiculous makeup, he likes her, too. Even if he thinks she's obsessive about cleanliness and manners. He could get used to keeping her around, if he could take the Capitol out of her.

The problem is, Haymitch doesn't trust himself with something as fragile as love. That's why he identifies better with Katniss, who keeps a wide berth from Peeta because she doesn't know what to do with Peeta's obvious and unashamed feelings for her. He understands her. He understands running. It's why he's been drinking from the day the gamemakers freed him. He catches Effie's gaze and realizes that she's watching him, her eyes narrowed as she tries to understand what's going through his head.

Effie's not worth running toward. He knows better than to think she'd catch him if he stumbled and fell. Nobody would. Hell, he doesn't even bother to catch himself, most days. "Well, I still don't see what could have possessed you to try cooking," he says finally, taking the plate, "but I appreciate the effort. You get a three. And no sponsors."

She reacts as if he physically shooed her out of the room, retreating to his bedroom. When she reappears she's made up, dressed up, and she only vaguely waves goodbye to him before she disappears.

The worst part is, the bacon isn't half bad.


End file.
